James was still smiling. “You’re a good man, Edward Blakemoore.”
“Let’s not let that kind of story get out,” Edward replied. He winked and left, heading for the stables. He’d ride his horse about the grounds of Dunstead Manor to shake the sense of melancholy that had descended upon him so suddenly.
Odd, he thought, walking through the corridors. I’ve never wanted a wife until today. Unfortunate that the odds of finding the kind of woman I’d want—and her wanting me in return—are almost nonexistent anywhere, let alone in Glenworth.
Edward had to ride for over an hour to shake the cloud hanging over his head. He returned, dressed, and entered the dining room feeling much more like his regular self. But the cloud returned all too quickly, for throughout the meal, he watched James and Fanny interact in a manner he’d never noticed before. It was all simple things—a tender look, a sincere comment, a kind gesture. Each seemed to communicate a wealth of meaning and love between Mr. and Mrs. James Clement.
Never had Edward felt so extraneous, so unneeded.
Never had he so wanted what another possessed. Due to the station he’d been born in, he’d lived a life wherein anything he wished could be obtained, whether through hard work, clever negotiation, or plain old money.
Now he found himself with a yearning greater than any he’d ever experienced, yet for something that no amount of work, wits, or wealth could give to him.
Chapter Three
Another morning meant another breakfast, almost a twin to the one from the day before. It was no wonder that Olivia was pulled from her typical reverie after Aunt Matilda decided she’d had enough to eat. Olivia didn’t mind the interruption, as she would be able to quickly return to her imaginary life on their morning walk.
Her mother and aunt both believed that a healthy constitution required exercise, perhaps a remnant from their own upbringings, so even in the dead of winter, they walked through the frozen gardens. Though at this time of year, the walks tended to be much shorter. Not that her mother or aunt would admit to that.
Every time they went out, Olivia felt sympathy for the poor gardener, Mr. Tracy, who had to keep a path clear for them no matter how deep the snow had fallen, then sprinkle it with gravel to decrease the likelihood of one of the women slipping and falling. Most gardeners had much less to do in the winter months, but she suspected he might have more, for in addition to keeping the walkways clear of snow and sprinkled with rocks, he had to somehow make the gardens look pleasing even when the hedges and flowers were dead.
Wrapped in woolen cloaks, Mother and Aunt Matilda walked ahead of Olivia, who quite happily hung back, gradually letting the distance increase until she almost felt alone. She imagined that her man of the shadows was nearby, hidden by a tree or hedge, and might step around a corner and greet her at any moment. He’d put his arm out. She’d take it with a shy curtsy like a proper lady. They’d walk together arm in arm, and when Mother and Aunt Matilda eventually glanced over their shoulders and noticed, they’d smile and nod to him with a murmur of greeting.
In Olivia’s dreams, her mother always approved of him. How could she not? Olivia’s imagination had created a man so perfect that even her mother’s high standards for a gentleman would be easily met, yet he wouldn’t be unpleasantly stiff like a real man of whom Mother approved would undoubtedly be. No, he would be kind and warm and tease just the right amount, so she’d know how much he cared about her—that he loved her so much, he noticed the little things worthy of a lover’s joke.
The realm of fancy included all things that made—or rather, could make—Olivia happy, and she let herself enjoy such flights of the mind, knowing quite well that more than likely, they would be her only true source of happiness from that time forward. No one in the human realm could be both the kind of man she could desperately love and a man who somehow managed to attain her mother’s approval rather than the condescending disdain she kept in reserve for most of the world.
Olivia got so enthralled with her current dream—dancing at a ball with her man of shadow, looking radiant in a new ball gown, the envy of the other young women—that she didn’t notice that the older ladies had turned back to return to the house until she narrowly missed stepping right onto her aunt’s boot.
“Excuse me, Aunt Matilda,” she said sheepishly—and regretfully, as the world of the ballroom and the shadow man whirling her around the floor vanished like a soap bubble floating through the air and then popping into nonexistence. Was it her imagination, or were their walks getting shorter each day? Perhaps it was the unusually cold winter.
Her aunt sniffed and walked on as her mother shook her head with sad disapproval, as if Olivia were a misbehaving six-year-old. As she turned to follow, she paused to admire the way the snow bordering the shoveled path sparkled as if someone had taken a handful of diamonds and strewn them across the ground.
“Is something the matter?” Mother demanded, pausing in her step and looking back. Aunt Matilda did the same, her eyebrows raised so high it was a wonder they didn’t disappear into her hairline altogether.
Olivia blinked a few times, returning, alas, entirely to the present moment, complete with toes that felt pinched and a nose so cold it almost felt as if it were on fire.
How warm my imagination keeps me, she mused.
“I’m fine, Mother.” Olivia instinctively nodded, almost as if she were a servant, then picked up her skirts and hurried along the icy path as quickly as she dared, saying, “Coming.” She put on an expression of contrite humility as one might put on a garment. This one was certainly ill-fitting, but neither of the older women seemed to notice the unnatural manner in which Olivia held her face.
I certainly feel like a servant at times, she thought, working hard to keep her shocking thoughts from showing on her face.
As she walked back to the house, her shadow hero had the opportunity to return, complete with his voice, intellect, and enjoyment of things such as science and politics, subjects Olivia found utterly fascinating, but which young ladies weren’t supposed to be interested in—or supposed to understand, if her mother’s opinion meant anything. In fact, Mother blamed Olivia’s passion for mathematics and science for landing her firmly in the position of spinsterhood.
“Intelligent women intimidate a man,” she’d said a thousand times if once. “If a man cannot be assured that he possesses the greater intellect, he won’t pick the woman as his wife.”
If Olivia’s lack of marriage offers was any indication, Mother was correct on that point. As Olivia walked along, she kicked a lump of snow with her toe, a virtually silent and undetectable way of expressing frustration and disappointment. Her only way of doing so without raising her mother’s ire.
If a man is intimidated by a woman who can think and who enjoys learning, then he is not for me, and I am most certainly not for him.
The thought was true, but not exactly comforting. Olivia had no desire to live out her life as an old maid, stuck with Mother and Aunt Matilda until they died. At that point, she could accept Andrew’s offer of living with him and Emma at Landerfield, something she looked forward to, as much as the private admission made her feel a stab of guilt. She didn’t wish her mother to die, of course, yet she would have preferred to live at Landerfield with her brother and his new wife, who were much closer to her in age. Olivia imagined that she wouldn’t be so lonely living there.
But she had to acknowledge and prepare herself for the fact that her new sister-in-law might not want another woman in her home, especially after they had several children filling the bedchambers, along with nannies and tutors.
Would that I were a man and could study science at a university, become a scientist, and support myself with work in a laboratory. Would that such a dream could come true, ever, for any woman.
Instead, women’s fates lay largely in the hands of those who controlled the money—in the hands of men.
The house came into view as Mary, one of the housemaids, came running
for them, without a coat or shawl of any kind. “They’re here, ma’am,” she said breathlessly when she reached Mother.
“Who is here?” Mother demanded in a tone as cold as the icicles hanging from the eaves.
Her mother wasn’t asking the question out of ignorance, of course. The entire household knew that Andrew and Emma were coming today. No, Mother had asked the question—stressing the first word—as a lesson to poor Mary, who was young and still learning how to be a proper housemaid, including how to announce visitors. No surprise, really, as she spent most of her time in the kitchen helping the cook, but as the house lacked a large staff, Mary needed to learn other duties that went beyond making scones and tea. And Mother had reminded her to announce the names of guests, not only their arrival.
With the safety of her mother’s back facing her, Olivia rolled her eyes and laughed silently. Mary wouldn’t dare tell if she saw. The lady of the house might not approve of Olivia, but the maid had no right to do so, and Mother would jump to the aid of her blood and dismiss Mary without argument. Mary definitely noticed Olivia’s reaction, and she did look somewhat shocked, but she erased the expression quickly, then cleared her throat.
Mary answered, her eyes trained on the snowy ground and her hands clasped so tightly that her hands were white. “Mr. and Mrs. Wallington have arrived, ma’am. Their luggage is being brought up to the northeast guest chambers, as you instructed. Mrs. Barton is preparing the tea to be served in the parlor momentarily.”
“Much better,” Mother said with a nod of approval. Her face tilted upward, so she spoke while looking down her nose at Mary. “Tell them we’ll be in shortly.”
Aunt Matilda shook her head. “So difficult finding good help these days,” she muttered, eyebrows raised as she seemed to study the needles of one of the many pine trees for which the house was named.
Mary looked from Mother to Aunt Matilda, wary, like a dog worried that it was about to be kicked. “Yes’m,” she managed, and when Mother and Aunt Matilda said nothing more, she gave a quick curtsy and hurried inside, likely to escape them as much as the cold.
The party headed inside, though much too slowly for Olivia’s preference, as she was quite excited at the prospect of seeing her brother for the first time since his wedding tour to the Continent. Her mother seemed to be walking even more slowly, as if she knew Olivia was eager to get inside. Being the loyal daughter she was, Olivia remained a few steps behind her mother and aunt. They entered the back door, where Mary waited to help them with their wraps, and then they followed Pierce, the butler, to the parlor. Andrew stood upon their entrance.
“Andrew,” Mother said. He stepped forward and hugged her, but, per usual, she stood straight as a board.
When he stepped back, Mother nodded even more stiffly, if that was possible, toward her new daughter-in-law—the woman also known under the roof of Pine Park as the one responsible for robbing Mother of house and home.
Emma stood beside Andrew. “Mother Wallington,” she said warmly, a trace of hope in her voice.
Mother hardly acknowledged the greeting; she merely crossed to a settee and sat at the edge of it, almost as if she were perched on the cushion. She certainly couldn’t be comfortable, but then again, when had Mother ever indulged in luxuries such as comfort? Poor Emma couldn’t have known about the family she’d married into, even if Andrew had tried to tell her about it. No one could fully grasp Mother or Aunt Matilda without experiencing their aloof pretentiousness firsthand.
Unsurprisingly, Aunt Matilda’s greeting was formal. Andrew didn’t attempt to embrace her; he simply gave her a proper bow and said, “I hope you are well.”
“As well as can be expected in winter,” Aunt Matilda said, “with burning coal vapors indoors and temperatures that seem designed to kill an old woman with rheumatism.”
As Andrew straightened, he seemed unsure how to reply to such a comment. He and Emma exchanged glances, and Olivia thought she caught the barest hint of amusement passing between them. It was gone as soon as she saw it, however, leaving Olivia wondering if it had been in her imagination. Their aunt took a seat beside Mother, at last making way for Olivia to greet her brother. She hugged him gratefully, feeling the warmth of his cheek against her chilly one from the outdoors.
He pulled back and took her hands in his. “It’s so good to see you, Olivia,” he said.
“And you,” she replied. The wedding seemed ever so long ago, though it had been only a few months. She turned to her sister-in-law. “It is very good to see you too. I hope your tour was pleasant.”
“Oh, it was most enjoyable,” Emma said. “We particularly enjoyed our stay in Italy.”
Olivia wanted to pepper Emma with questions about their travels, but a swift clearing of the throat from her mother cut off that thread of conversation. Feeling a bit chagrined, Olivia retreated to a chair near the fire—as close as she could be to their guests while being as far as possible from her mother and aunt. Such actions constituted the entirety of Olivia’s rebellion against their expectations, such as it was. In her waking dreams, however, her rebellion knew no bounds; she did things that would utterly shock and horrify her mother and potentially send Aunt Matilda into a state of apoplexy. The thought forced Olivia to hide an amused smile of her own.
Yet what would Andrew and Emma think of her fantasies? She had a feeling that Andrew wouldn’t be so horrified, and she hoped that Emma would be a kindred spirit in the same vein. Not that Olivia had any way to find out; she’d have to broach the topic of shocking behavior and ask in blunt terms what they thought of such things, neither of which she could ever imagine herself doing.
“Oh, come, Mother,” Andrew said.
His voice brought Olivia’s head up and her mind back to the parlor. What had Mother said? How much of the conversation had Olivia not heard? This could be very bad indeed, she thought, eying her mother warily.
But Andrew simply went on, whether before either of the two older women could speak or whether neither had anything to say, Olivia wasn’t entirely sure.
“You are and always will be welcome to live at Landerfield,” he said.
Mother raised her eyebrows almost as high as Matilda’s. She pretended to inspect the stitching on the settee as she replied, “I will not encroach on anyone’s charity. You are the rightful master of the estate, and your wife is fully capable of helping you manage it. I am no longer needed or wanted, so we will live here, as your father provided for in his will. It’s all quite comfortable, as you can see. We want for nothing.”
Nothing save for the status of living and running an estate such as Landerfield, Olivia mused. Her mother seemed to view her son’s inheritance and marriage as a personal affront and fall from grace. But what had she expected her son to do? Of course he would marry, and Olivia was grateful he’d found a woman of proper breeding and station whom he respected, yes, but also loved.
“You are welcome to visit any time,” Andrew said.
“I should hope so,” Mother said with a huff. “Landerfield was my home for thirty years.”
Emma gently placed a hand on Andrew’s arm, indicating that she wanted to speak. “What my dear husband means, Mother Wallington, is that you are welcome to come and stay any time you wish. You are family, and in our eyes, Landerfield will always be your home.”
“Fiddlesticks,” Mother said, then sniffed again. “This cottage is my home now.” She said the word as if referring to a rotten piece of meat, although the statement wasn’t accurate anyway. Pine Park was smaller than Landerfield, but only Mother would think to call it a cottage.
“Which brings me to a question,” Mother said.
Andrew and Emma looked curiously at each other and then at Mother. He finally asked the obvious. “And what is that, Mother?”
“Why precisely have you come to visit? This house is so modest compared with Landerfield—it’s practically a food pantry. Christmas is long over, as is Twelfth Night. Travel in the winter is miserable at best. So why
now?”
“To visit you and my dear sister,” Andrew said, then quickly added, “and Aunt Matilda, of course.”
Matilda’s entire response was a lifted chin with the turn of her head toward the crackling fire.
Oh, Andrew, Olivia thought. You have no idea how easy it is to offend under any roof where both Mother and Aunt Matilda reside.
He looked both surprised and confused. Over the years, Olivia had wondered why he’d been spared the worst of the vitriol, and figured that it was likely due to his time away at Eton, during which his return for visits were a time for celebration, even for Mother. He hadn’t been home to be a mark on a target as Olivia had. Yet even if he had, he was born male and meant for great things, while Olivia was the girl destined for spinsterhood. Apparently, Mother’s ire hadn’t felt a need to aim in Andrew’s direction until he’d done something to cause what she viewed as a wound.
Her brother leaned forward. “In addition to the joy of seeing my dearest family, we came now because a neighbor of yours will be hosting a ball on Friday eve.” He looked so pleased with himself; he couldn’t possibly know that he’d done the equivalent of throwing a burning log into the center of the room.
“Oh?” Mother said in a familiar tone—feigned curiosity with derision hiding beneath the surface. A glance their way showed Olivia that her brother and sister-in-law remained utterly oblivious to any lurking danger. To an outsider, the single word probably did look benign.
If only I could warn him somehow, she thought, but then questioned her haste in worrying. Perhaps I’ve developed a particularly sensitive ear to Mother’s moods and assume matters will turn out worse than they really will.
Andrew’s face became animated as he went on, surely thinking that he’d landed on the perfect topic of conversation. “One of my dearest friends from Eton recently bought a home in the area—Dunstead Manor, it’s called. I’m sure you remember hearing about my chum James Clement. We became friends my very first year.”
Timeless Regency Collection: A Midwinter Ball Page 10